A Place in your Heart
by midfielder
Summary: It was always a matter of time. story premise: postrescue, jack and kate wait on each other. sorry took me ages to update. real life interfered. maybe you should R&R to help me out.
1. Seconds apart

Disclaimer: Those words written in _italicized fonts_ are not mine, they're Tracy Chapman's although I can't remember the title of her song from which I took them. And oh yeah, don't own lost either.

Seconds apart

_If you wait for me,_

_Then I'll come for you._

_Although I've traveled far,_

_I always hold a place for you in my heart._

Today is a good day, she wants to tell him. The sun seems higher up in the sky. The sky's bluer than she'd ever seen. There's not a cloud in sight. Or at least, she can't see any from her small window. She imagines he'd agree with a slight nod and a smile gracing his lips.

He comes in bits and pieces to her, like cut-up pictures to a puzzle; she pictures his eyes first, brown and warm with mirth. Then his forehead which creases over his raised brows. His brown crop of hair, smooth to the touch. His ears. His sharp chin. The rough stubble along his jaw. His high cheekbones. His structured nose. His thin lips curled into a smile. This is all what memory could afford her – still pictures of a daydream. She is grateful, nonetheless. She has found out that if she flits through them fast enough with her mind's eyes, like the old-fashioned comic strips she'd grown up with, she could almost see him move, eyes dancing with a volume of emotions she had, time and again, tried to dissect. She'd fix these mental pictures with conversations and confessions. In them, he is always smiling, laughing, and sometimes crying, arguing, cursing. Today, she marvels at him about the nice weather. Later, she hopes to share with him a secret. But he's smiling an odd smile, one which tells her he's known it all along.

So she keeps the silence and, standing still, leans her back against the wall, dangerously resembling someone who's doing nothing he'd say. But she's hardly that she would tell him, continuing the light banter in her head – she's keeping track of time. By the height of the sun in the sky, and the ensuing heat, she guesses it's roughly about midday. And any moment now, they'd be let out for lunch, followed by a quick stroll around the court area. On any other day, she'd be one of those to line up for food in the mess hall. On any ordinary day, she'd be playing cards with her friends by one of the benches. But today is a good day. And she resolves she would spend it by counting down the seconds.

The sound of metal against metal distracts her from the task. "Katherine Austen," the voice seems to echo through the small, bare cell.

"That's me." She turns her head, her eyes immediately locked onto the cell door that's invitingly gaping open. She stifles instinct and remains still.

"Well, ain't it your lucky day?" The woman puts on a smile, which Kate promptly ignores.

"Do you think it would be possible to skip the crap?" She removes her back from the wall, puts all her weight on her feet, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I can't stand to be here a minute longer."

"A bit cranky, aren't we?"

"Sorry, Ford." She sighs and her frown breaks into a slight smile. "But five years in this place could do that to you."

"Understandably so." She motions for her to walk out of the cell. Kate didn't need to be told twice.

"We'll have to finish your release papers first. It shouldn't take more than 30 minutes."

"Think I can handle that." As she walks past her cell door, into the long row of cells, she resumes her count.


	2. Home is

Home is

_If you think of me,_

_If you miss me once in a while,_

_Then I'll return to you._

_I'll return and fill that space in your heart._

_Remembering your touch, your kiss, your warm embrace._

_I'll find my way back to you,_

_If you'll be waiting._

"It's my number and home address in LA. And the hospital where I work." He begins the instant the door is safely closed behind the nurse, at which point, he takes her hand and places in it the slip of paper. It looks like a crumpled receipt, straightened out to be used as an improvised calling card. She wants to ask where he got it, where he lifted the pen from and when, in between the media frenzy and the medical inquiries, did he find the time to write it. But her mind, as of the moment, is busy trying to calculate the host of meanings behind the gesture. He has just given her his phone number, home address and workplace, which means that he actually wants to maintain contact, which ultimately means that there is a possibility that this isn't the last time she's going to see him.

It is both an unwelcome and welcome prospect but she knows what needs to be done. So she tries her best to rein in all the emotions, erase all their minutest indications. She gives her all in what could very well be her hardest lie, the most challenging performance of her known life. "When I run, I don't look back, Jack." She manages to look him in the eyes; as to how, she doesn't know. But for a second, she thinks she just might be able to convince herself to believe her own words.

She sees his eyes flicker, and for a moment, the usual certainty in them wavers in doubt and in hurt. They made a mistake, she then remarks absently, they had been both careless and stupid to give each other the power and position to influence one another, to hurt each other. She should have put a stop to it from the beginning, from the very moment she had seen him by a cluster of trees, under the shade of the foliage. Even as he was on his knees asking her for help, even with a gash gaping open on his back, she should have said no. She should have ran, just as her instincts were telling her to, just as what she'd done countless times before. What was it that kept her there? For the past years, she'd been able to evade the question, but today, there's no more room to hide. It's the same thing that keeps her pinned to her seat right this moment. And it's the same thing that makes her feel a bit more bold, a little more reckless enough to keep her nerves at bay, to suspend her impulse to run. Sometimes, it's even enough to hold up the illusion, the hope that this just might work out. It's the look in his eyes; the intensity in them that she swears she'd never seen in anyone before, the kind that can pry the truth out of her, the kind that with sheer will and strength can bring dead people back to life, the kind, she hopes, that can save her from herself.

He's repositioned his chair, dragging the thing so that he's facing her full on. "I don't know anything about the law, I hardly have any connections." There it is, the light in his eyes; she decides she could spare the illusion a few more moments. "But I can help. I want to help you", he pauses. She takes this chance to prepare herself to say no to the kind but misguided offer. She's sure that once she enumerates the probable complications of being associated with a known and wanted criminal, how he'll be dragged into the mess she called her life with no assurance that he'll ever get out, he will, at the very least, be forced to think twice. And if that's not enough, she could always recount a story of a man who also wanted to help her but instead ended up strapped into his own car with a bullet in his chest. For the clincher, she could also throw in the little detail that she, his best friend of practically their whole lifetime, ran and left him for dead. She should also probably tell him about the woman whom she made a widow and a little boy whom she made fatherless. But that's to risk getting sidetracked, she concludes.

But his eyes seem to have shift to a shade darker, and in them is a confident intensity that's unfamiliar even to her. "I _need_ to help you, Kate." And it's then that she realizes she's underestimated him again. It is then that she comprehends how dangerously committed this man is. Which gives her all the more reason to run, both for her sake and his.

She wants to shout at him, then, ask him what the hell is wrong with him. And maybe it's the frustration she feels for his seeming irrational, obsessive compulsion to help her, or her irritation at his plain stubbornness, or the gratitude she feels for his concern, or maybe it's just their unnerving proximity, but all such feelings find articulation in a kiss.

She pulls him into her in one swift motion, her hand at the back of his neck. Perhaps it's because he'd anticipated it or have planned to do it himself, but he doesn't seem the least bit surprised at the sudden move. Her lips are insistent with urgency but his are slow to respond, slow and light, as though he was testing the texture of her lips, the taste of her tongue. He slides his hands to her cheeks, cupping them in place. She feels it now, the intensity of his eyes flowing into his lips, pouring into the kiss. She feels him mimicking her pace, the need in her kisses, and they fall into rhythm. It feels natural, real. It feels right. It's then that the tears fall quietly, but neither she nor he seems to notice, seems to mind. She cries at the thought that she may never have this again.

He's the first one to break away, whether it's for the lack of breath or simply because he's had enough or hadn't want this in the first place, she can't be sure and doesn't want to speculate. But he's not completely letting go yet; his hands remain on her cheeks, as he rests his forehead on hers, his warmbreath washing over her face. It leaves her in an odd calm.

"If you're going to run," he says in between heaves of breath, "I suggest you start now."

"I don't want to run," she has to let him know that. "But I don't really have a choice."

"There's always a choice, Kate."

He lifts his head, pulling back so that he could see her eyes. "And you have to make one soon, very soon."

"But you have to know, that whatever decision I make, I make it for both of us, okay?" Fresh tears make new paths on her cheeks, down to her chin. "I did it for both of us. You have to understand that, Jack."

"I'll try to understand, Kate."

Just then, the door creaks open and they have to pull apart. "Jack Shepard."

"Yeah."

"Sorry for the delay." He closes the door with his right hand, holding the clipboard with the other. "That guy that came before you, Sawyer is it? Well, he was giving the doc one hell of a time." She knows she has to, but she can't stop crying just yet. "Hey, hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." It's amazing how his demeanor shifts so easily, how his eyes lose their sadness, how the tears are pushed back so neatly, leaving no trace at all. He's even managed to project a smile. "She just can't believe we're finally back."

"I can't even begin to imagine, man. Two years. That's crazy."

"Tell me about it." He can even joke.

The man crouches, and tries to talk to her, perhaps with the intent of giving her some comfort. "Hey, you're home. You gotta believe that, Joanna; everything's gonna be all right from here on in." But all she's made to feel is more guilt as she wonders what price she'd have to pay for that name. She wipes her face with her hands.

"I'll come back for you, okay?" His hand comes to rest on her shoulder. "Just going to escort Jack here to the doc."

She nods, trying to put on her lips some semblance of a smile. He then stands up and leads Jack to the door. She can only follow him with her eyes, as she takes in whatever detail of him she can, until the door clicks shut. And because the only thing that was keeping her here's gone, she runs.

-----

"Ma'am?" The question snaps her out of reverie.

"I'm sorry. You were saying something?"

"Just askin' if the lady has a name." The question catches her off guard. And while she's usually quite adept at forming life stories and resumes in a split second, her real memories have left her disoriented. The old man interprets her silence as mistrust and apparently feels the need to explain.

"We gonna be on the road for two days. Just want to know who I'm ridin' with. No harm in that, I reckon." It occurs to her then that she doesn't need to lie anymore.

"Of course." She nods her head in agreement. "Sorry for being rude. You're riding with Kate."

"Bradley Ackerman at yer service, ma'am." He tips his hat, returns the smile, wrinkles, lines and all. "Honored to have your company."

"Well, Bradley, the honor is all mine." The conversation fades into a lull, or so she thought.

"So Miss Kate, where you headed?" It's just small talk, she reminds herself, a way to pass the time – no ulterior motives, no overdue mortgage to be paid, no more wanted posters painted all over town.

"LA."

"That's mighty far from here," he manages to comment while keeping his eyes on the road.

"Yeah, that's where you come in. Thank you for the ride."

"What's a young lady like you doing out here, anyway? That is, if you don't mind me askin'."

"Oh, just wanted to see the world. You know how we college kids get; can't stay still for two minutes." The lie rolls out her tongue so smoothly, she couldn't stop it even if she wanted to; some habits just take a bit more work to break.

"You finally going home, then," he asks, stealing a glance at her as he does. Home, the word rings in her head. For a long time, home was anywhere; the backseat of a car, a barn, someone's shed, the underside of a bridge and up until recently, a four by six cell. But now all the word conjures up is an image of his face.

"Yeah, you could say that," is all she can come up with.

"Ain't no feeling like it, eh?"

"Pardon?" She heard it, of course, but the question is not along the small talk variety she'd expected that it takes her by surprise; it's the kind that gets under your skin, and into your nerves.

"Going home." His gaze settles on her, not minding the road. "There's no feeling like it." He says it with such warmth and pride. And although the idea was foreign to her for most of her life, she thinks she finally knows what it means.

"Yeah, no feeling like it," she agrees, a smile finding its way to her lips.


	3. A roll of memory

A roll of memory

_If you dream of me,_

_Like I dream of you,_

_In a place that's warm and dark_

_In a place where I can feel the beating of your heart._

"Clear." The chest jerks upward, moving with the paddles, like a magnet to an opposite charge. "Come on, Alan. Come on," he says under his breath. But the sound drones on, and the monitor screams a flat line.

He charges up the pads, rubbing them together, and goes again. "Clear."

And again. "Clear."

"Doctor…," the associate surgeon interjects.

"One more." And even though he's one of the best surgeons around and he's the one man Jack's inclined to call his best friend, he cuts him off, refusing to hear what he knows he's about to say. "Clear."

"He's not responding…"

"I can see that, Mark." He gets in his face, but his mien remains blank, composed, bordering on unfeeling.

He readies the equipment yet again. "Clear."

But the man's as stubborn as Jack is, or at least, he tries to be. Because he wants to be a friend to him and that means he has to make him stop doing this to himself, has to intervene before he's accumulated enough grief and guilt to drown himself in. "He knew the risks, Jack. We did what we could. You should…"

"I know what I have to do," he's able to say through gritted teeth.

His face is set, unmoving. "One. More." He doesn't even look like he's breathing.

He wants to step forward, physically restrain him and drag him out of the room. That's what best friends do after all; keep each other in line, give the other a good beating if necessary. But he assents, offers only a somewhat excessively heavy sigh to voice his disapproval. It's official, he thinks; there has yet a man to stumble into an OR that has a stubbornness to exceed, let alone to equal, Jack's.

"Clear." A second passes and there's no change. Jack takes a step back, hands still on the paddles, eyes unblinking, intent on the monitor's screen. A hand settles on his shoulder, pats him in earnest sympathy. But he doesn't flinch, just continues to stare at the monitor, waiting. Mark rethinks the whole drag-out-of-the-room idea but just then, as if Jack wills it to happen, with simply his stare and sheer determination, there's a hitch in the monotonous sound, a deviation in the straight line. The room, and everyone in it gets to breathe. Except Jack.

"We've got him back," he says to the assisting nurse, but maybe more to himself. "Heart rate is steady. Keep that blood going. Monitor him, and if there are any changes, anything at all, you come and get me. You hear me?" The nurse only nods, probably shun to silence because of his calm and yet unsettling outburst.

He exits the room, into the hall where the air is clear of the smell of death and looming failure. He sets out for the vending machine down the hall.

His hands dive into his pockets in search of a bill. He finds one and feeds it to the machine. He pushes the button for vanilla; he doesn't know why but he's feeling a bit adventurous tonight. He waits, and waits a little more, but the warm vanilla doesn't come. And maybe something finally snaps in that head of his, like a twig stepped onto accidentally, or maybe he just really likes vanilla, but he starts hammering the thing with his fists. "Stupid machine!" he mutters, a little louder than he wanted. The abuse continues for a little over a minute before a voice anchors him back to his rational self.

"Hey Jack." It's Mark and he reminds him of who he is – Jack Shepard, spinal surgeon, son of the former and deceased head surgeon. The name is heavy with expectations people had set up for him, his deceased dad for him and he for himself, expectations he's having trouble keeping up with lately. He realizes then just how absurd he might've looked, taking out his issues on the poor vending machine. He can feel the control coming back; feel his face harden a bit in awareness and composure. Oddly enough, he's not sure whether he wants to be in control.

"Hey." He moves away from the machine, and takes a seat on a nearby bench. "Something wrong?"

"Yes, there's something wrong." The man doesn't join him on the bench and instead has taken to leaning against the wall. "You saved another life, just two minutes ago," he informs him in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I know, Mark." He's trying to figure out where he's going with this: another lecture about the healing wonders of letting go or maybe just a pat on the back for the successful operation. "If I remember it right, I was there in the OR the whole time it happened."

"Then tell me why you're looking like someone just died." It doesn't come out as a question, but a statement, a fact. Jack wants to ask what he meant by that but he finds that he doesn't have the energy to argue.

"Just tired, Mark," he says, rubbing his temples as if to emphasize his point. "Just tired."

"Right." He looks as though he was about to say something more, but hesitates at the last moment, wary of his limits and Jack's. It's then that his face grows grim and sad but mostly frustrated because they weren't like this before, he wasn't like this before. Back then, he could say what he wanted to say to him without ever having to worry about overstepping his bounds. They used to have a good time, used to consider each other the best of company, having enough things in common to be able to talk, and laugh at the same worthwhile and idiotic things. He was his best man for his wedding; he, after chugging down enough wine that was needed to perform the task, even gave a toast for him and his wife.

But then the island happened and nothing was ever the same. In his first days back in civilization, Jack had acted as if the two previous years hadn't happen, as if the most mind-blowing tragedy of the century that had captivated the imagination of thousands was nothing but great pop fiction. Weeks into his old life, he had seemed normal – too normal – he talked about football, performed surgeries here and there, laughed at appropriate times, and even cracked a few jokes himself. But Mark was and is his best friend and a look at him by the port along with his band of island survivors that Monday afternoon, for the very first time in two years, told him that he wasn't the same man. For one thing, his face had anxiety written all over it, eyes shifting for one person to another, looking at everywhere and nowhere, like he was searching for something, or someone. That's natural, he'd figured then, because he was probably just taking in the new environment, the one with concrete pavement replacing the shifting sand he imagines he had gotten used to, the towering buildings in place of the coconut trees and the overwhelming mass of people - families swarming, wailing - for the practically deserted ambience of the island. But he'd also seen the looks exchanged between and among him and his newfound friends; the pensive stares, the curt nods and the pursing of lips, small gestures that made him feel that something wasn't right. Did he imagine it? Was it all just in his head? Maybe it just hadn't sunk in yet – the fact that Jack was after all alive, and was just living on some undiscovered island for the past two years. Or the fact that he's back, seemingly without so much as a scratch on him. The idea just seemed too crazy and maybe thinking about it got him pretty crazed as well.

The psychological test the survivors, Jack included, were obligated to take along with other tests right after the rescue chalked it up to one of the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder – disassociation, detachment; he's been cut off from the real world, the doctor explains, thrown into a completely unfamiliar and unaccommodating environment and now suddenly he's back, sucked back into this world, caught unaware and unprepared. She had called them in, a handful of Jack's family and friends, to deliver the prognosis. Apparently, Jack and the symptom profile were a perfect fit. Isolates feelings about the traumatic experience – check. Avoids thoughts related to incident – check. Exhibits reclusive behavior – check. Mention of incident-related topics triggers high anxiety levels – check. The collective prognosis for the whole group was so strong that it was decided, under the counsel of the medical team, that their names were to be kept from the public, only to be released after a year and only on voluntary basis. She had further advised them that they should immerse Jack in his old life, surround him and remind him of what was life before the 'incident'. It was better for them not to press him for information, as he should be able to tell them things in his own time, she said emphatically. So he waits, and wonders when he'll break, and _if_ he'll ever break. Maybe then, finally, he'll be able to share with him the island stories that changed him so greatly and irreversibly. Maybe then he'll let him in on what it is exactly about that island that has made him this way. Six years have passed since then, and there have been good times and worst times. But he is still waiting.

Now and then, in moments when he forgets civility, he has asked him flat out. Usually, all he gets for an answer is a shrug, a grunt, an equally vague remark like "It doesn't matter" or an effective but not-so-subtle diversion like "I'm needed at the OR." At rare times, when he finds him unguarded, he gets stories about failed raft attempts, bickering fellow castaways, bizarre medical emergencies and of course, often in great detail, his failed island surgeries. But because he knows Jack, in fact, has known him since 4th grade, he knows there's more, a lot more than what he's letting on. Now, he gets the urge to ask again. But he finds that, for the moment, he doesn't have the energy to. He makes a move to walk away. "I'll leave you to rest then."

But before he completely disappears out of sight, around the corner and into another long stretch of rooms, he realizes he can't just give up on him like that. "You have to remember, Jack," he says with all the sincerity he can muster. "You have to remember how doing good felt like." He gives him a curt nod and proceeds to walk away.

It's not that he can't remember, Jack wants to call after him and explain, but he holds back because, as usual, he worries that he might not be able to make him understand. Instead, he leans back, rests his head on the wall, and closes his eyes. In his mind, the memory has never been clearer.

He recalls the first day his father brought him to work. He was just seven then. Margo had to take care of some business so she got him to tag along with his father for the afternoon. It was a fairly boring affair: his father got to catch up on some paperwork and he got to sit quietly in one corner, doing the crossword puzzle. But later in the afternoon, his father got called into an operation to assist and somewhere along the chaos of a medical crisis, in a world of very focused and to him then, very tall doctors, his little body got swept into the operating room. For some gut instinct, he knew he wasn't supposed to be there, knew he'd be in big trouble when his father found out that he _was_ there. But he also knew that he had this peculiar ability to disappear into a corner, sit in complete stillness so as to affect inanimateness.

So he stayed glued to the spot, motionless, as his father stood in the middle of the chaos, with what he thought to be the most unhurried and peaceful expression he's ever seen on his face, wielding a scalpel in his hand. His distance to the operating table allowed little to be seen even more so with the people working on the patient blocking his view. But every now and then, when chance permitted it, he saw him making careful, gentle slicing motions, and in his head, he sees the skin marked with blood, and the little knife delving deeper into the flesh. Suddenly he'd been reminded of this magic show his father had brought him to once for his 6th birthday. He'd never been to one before that, so naturally he went wild with the performances, clapping and cheering insanely. He remembers distinctly this act, where the magician appears to cut up a man with a sword and later, puts him back together. When the performance was over, and the man was standing, walking to show that he was, indeed, whole and alive, little Jack had sat slack-jawed in amazement, completely out of cheers and hoorays; he had made up his 6-year old mind that no one was ever going to top that. Later in the car, however, Christian had sat him down and explained to him thoroughly the rules of magic, how its very idea was rooted in illusion and false premises much like shooting stars, Santa Clause and tooth fairies. He remembered feeling really sad that day, curled up on the passenger seat, counting the light posts they passed by. At dinner, Margo had asked him about their day. He told her, of course, because he was taught never to lie. "We went to a magic show," he had proclaimed. And then proceeded to eat quietly because he was taught, too, that displaying one's sadness wasn't polite. She just smiled, promised a repeat visit and took the silence in a stride; Jack never was the talkative kid.

But that lone day in the operating room proved to him that his father was right all along – magic couldn't be real because _this_ was. The knife, the blood, the thread and the needle. Those were real. And the fact that his father was the head magician was the coolest thing ever. He wondered idly if he could get his father to teach him his tricks. By the time a nurse spotted and promptly sent him out of the room with an urgent but reserved shove, he'd resolved he would do anything to make him. He never did get that private tutoring from his father. And later on, he'd discovered magic wasn't, in any sense, interchangeable with medicine.

But the basics are still there; he still thinks it's cool because he gets to deal with the tactile – the scalpel, the inches of tissue, the skin, the human body in theory which translates easily in practice – because those are the things he was equipped to deal with, nothing abstract and complicated like words, meanings, and intentions, things that he's inclined to mistake and misuse. He thinks it's even cooler because gets paid a hefty amount to do it. He thinks it's the coolest because he gets to help people in the process of doing it – lengthen their lives for years, sometimes, only weeks, sit by their bedside, talk to them about their future plans, in rare times, tell them about his, and maybe recover bits of his humanity while at it.

But another memory nudges him awake, makes every pore of his being breathe and every nerve stand in attention with feelings that has grown unfamiliar from lack of use.

He remembers her and how easily she made him feel good without ever having to do anything. Saving a life could feel as good as looking at her freckles that dotted along the slope of her cheeks; getting his hands tangled among the wild, brown curls of her hair; and sometimes, when she permits it, and only when she permits it, tracing his fingers down the contour of her lips. Happiness meant standing side by side in the sun, by the shore, feet planted into the warm sand, legs surrounded by dancing waves. Sinking, she calls it. He'd never tell her, but he calls it happiness. In the same way, he'd never tell her about passion. Never had he thought he'd describe anything involving him as passionate. He's admitted to being stubborn. But passionate? He thinks the word requires a certain fierceness and appetite, one that he believes he's only come close to when he's around her, thinking and talking about her. He relishes their conversations, thinks of them in boundless interest whether they be about the weather, boars, golf, anything. Maybe there lies the attraction – her infinite mystery, his equally endless curiosity. Either way, he's convinced he needs more than one lifetime to, at least, try to understand her. And even then, he can't promise he won't like, love what he discovers.

He remembers her, standing by the edge of the shore, looking to the horizon. The memory is crisp and strangely tactile; the sun beating on his skin, the salt of the sea air on his lips, the sound of waves flooding his ears, and the warmth of her, as he takes the place at her side. And for once in his life, he realizes, that he had something that he didn't need to work for. He didn't need to save someone to feel good. He didn't need to prove anything to anyone. He just had to let it happen. With her by his side, he could let go.

He remembers all of it, he wants to call after Mark and explain everything; but he can't put them into words because he's never been good at that. He wants to show it to him instead – a roll of memories tucked neatly into the seams of his consciousness, ready to be taken out whenever he needed to celebrate what he has and mourn for what he believes he has lost.


	4. A leap of faith

Leap of faith

_I've longed for you _

_And I have desired_

_To see your face, your smile,_

_To be with you wherever you are. _

It's a leap of faith, she remembers Locke saying.

She's never really been one to hope; she finds it too dangerous, too risky – pinning your future on faith, hoping it would sprout wings and bring you safely down to the ground. Make no mistake about it; Kate has had her share of jumping headfirst into the unknown but she's never done it with a blindfold about her eyes. She jumps headfirst, knowing fully well that there are equal chances of a safe and unsafe landing. And she kind of likes that idea because it means she has some measure of choice – she can tip the balance of possibility, sway chance to her favor. You can wish the policemen away, she supposes, hope they don't recognize you with that new blonde hair and expensive sunglasses you lifted off some lady. Or you can move – run, duck, fight and shoot back. She picks the latter over the former because she never wants to be at the mercy of anyone, or anything, even as abstract as faith; she figures she'd done enough of that in her childhood, left to the care of adults who couldn't take care of themselves, let alone, a harmless kid. No, she can't trust faith; she'd been let down too many times to make that mistake.

So into adulthood, with the years piling one after the other, she'd forged herself this philosophy, personality and body of a fighter – if she's going to take that leap, her bet won't be on faith or anything else for that matter; it'll be on her and her hard-earned abilities of charm, manipulation, quick-thinking, and physical strength. It has worked well for her, she must say. She's managed to worm her way out of any trouble she'd gotten herself into. The operative words are "worm her way out of trouble" because these qualities were never meant to solve them; that's the one thing she _had_ been taught - solutions were messy, with too many loose ends and even then, they don't come with guarantees. Denial, on the other hand, is an easier route; you can drink your heart out, be too intoxicated to worry over bills, your failing relationships, and your self-destructive streak. Or you can feign love; that beats having to go through the trouble of reporting abuse, possibly filing a law suit and having to admit to yourself the better part of your life has all been a lie. As for her, she'd taken up running because it gives her the illusion of progress, of moving forward, as though real growth was attainable in mere physical distance. Denial was in the family, she assents to that, but Kate never could take anything sitting down.

As such, she finds it hard to believe that two years in that island could shake and uproot what she'd thought was in her blood, what she'd believed to be hardwired to her brain. She finds it even harder to accept that it took only a man to do it. Granted, Jack isn't just _any_ man. He's of a rare variety, the kind that grows on you, with all his brooding and introspective flair, coupled with his seeming paradoxical character. He's a stubborn, aloof control freak. But she's also witnessed the kindest, selfless moments of mankind in him, acts worthy of, at the very least, admiration. And sometimes, in moments when he thinks no one's looking, he surprises her with his self-doubt that retreats as quickly as it appears, just a flash in his eyes, a momentary sag on his shoulders, a hint of frustration in his sighs.

He brings out in her a contradiction, too; that for a self-proclaimed man of science, there's something about him that makes her want to desperately believe, regard risks as possibilities. It comes almost as a dare, a challenge, with his little comments like_ You're not running now_, _We should all be able to start over_,_ Just give me something real, anything_. When others have dismissed her as a lost cause, put her into a cast-iron label as a criminal, he introduced her to the notion that she just might be worth a second chance. When others would have just assumed, he has the decency to ask – _Is that the truth? What is the truth? _– as if entertaining the possibility that she just might be capable of it, of the truth, of responsibility, of trust.

On the island, he gave her what she'd never had before – someone to disappoint, and yet at the same time, someone to surprise. Sometimes, that's all where it starts, all what it takes. A little trust, some faith.

And maybe it's the novelty of it, the idea being so new, so refreshing to her, that makes it special for her, that makes her want to hold on, but she's found that even in his absence this thing, dare she say, this hope, is growing stronger by the day.

----

It started out with simple things, things so simple she'd found them negligible, warranting no concern. They were just thoughts after all, random and uncontrived. She'd be driving down the freeway and she'd wonder suddenly what he could be doing right now; if he was finishing up another surgery or perhaps enjoying the afternoon off with his doctor friends at a nearby Starbucks. She would be doing her laundry, pouring detergent over the pile when she'd recall his scent and she can't help but smile at that, because she loved how he had always smelt of salt and fresh, sun-dried clothes. One time, she had been working the late shift at this bar on a stint. And she blamed boredom for it but she'd tried to imagine how his nights were; how he was probably still awake, working on the night shift as well, being the workaholic that he is. She imagined, too, just as she was switching off the lights, calling it a day, that he was heading out himself, both of them catching up on sleep, she hoped, on an empty bed. She missed him, she's willing to own up to that; after all, she wasn't made of stone.

But then they came as erratic impulses, what she calls momentary lapses of judgment, where she would find herself dialing his number on a public payphone in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of the night, only to hang up on the first ring. In between trips, where she'd stumble on rest stops, she would be looking up the papers, magazines, scanning them for news articles of the "doomed flight 815." Sure enough, they made the front page, in some cases, they'd even taken up the whole front page. But curiously, she'd found them insubstantial, lacking the details she needed, wanted to see. She'd been expecting pictures, their pictures, plastered on every cover, with the inside pages peppered with their individual testimonies, complete profiles and personal details, down to their favorite food, favorite castaway. Wasn't it Charlie who said they'd be instant celebrities? It puzzled her then that the articles dwelled on generalities, asking the questions what, why, where instead of getting down and dirty with who and how. Here they were, the strongest contender for the title of the hottest story on the planet, and yet no one was cashing in. One article specified a technicality in their defense; due to the serious emotional and psychological trauma of the events, survivors' names were withheld, it stated. She'd laugh then, caught in the irony of it. Since when had the media decided to grow a heart? But then, even as she breathed in cynicism, she breathed out in relief; she remembered not long ago, when she'd been on the papers herself, in pictures that had been taken in moments she'd consider to be the lowest points of her life. But now the connection had been severed – the name and the face. As far as the world was concerned, Katherine Austen, the fugitive, was dead. And without her picture posted all over town, and potentially, all over the world, she'd thought she could breathe a little easier, maybe even settle down with one name. It dawned on her then, as though by accident, that this could be it, what he talked about – her second chance, her clean slate. She could almost hear him, daring her: _We should all be able to start over, Kate_. She answered him by taking up a job at a diner, living off minimum wage and the occasional tips and change. She was on her way to her new life. But sometimes, she finds herself waiting for the evening news, for updates about a certain plane crash, and its forty plus survivors, among which, is a spinal surgeon with a crooked scar on his back, a remnant of clumsy stitches and loose threads.

It took her about a hundred of news updates to admit to herself that she wanted to see him.

She raised the stakes when she backpacked all the way to LA. She'd only intended to check up on him, see how he was doing from a distance because she knew a casual hello would never work; just too many questions on both ends. His secretary directed her to a café just across the hospital; he was on a break with his colleagues, she'd said. Sure enough, she found him still in his work clothes, sitting with his friends, chatting comfortably and sipping on latte. She assumed the fellow to his right just cracked a joke because a beat after his animated monologue, Jack broke into laughter, almost choking on his coffee. His eyes widened as if surprised, with just a tad of delighted humor in them, his lips moving to syllables she couldn't read. It's then she felt warmed to her being, which she decided, was the best feeling in the world, the only real feeling she's ever had for the longest time. She stood at the curb, rooted to the sidewalk, with just a stretch of concrete in between her and him. The traffic of vehicles and people are moderate; he could see her if he'd just turn his head, but he was lost in conversation. In that moment, she'd wanted, more than anything, to move, to run to him. She had wanted to be the one sitting across him, be the one to crack the joke that made him laugh, smile. But she stood her ground, as though her feet and legs have just lost all will to run. Their laughter eventually died down, and the conversation had grown to a halt. The guy across him pointed to a car; a new model, he remarked. He turned his head then. But she'd already gone.

It took her a couple of months more to admit to herself that she wanted more than a new life.

She went to England; decided a change of scenery, and a change of name would do her good, would make her forget. By some sick luck, she was greeted by a familiar face, taking a random glance at the television by the waiting area. The rock god himself, Charlie Pace, promising an exclusive, with a catchy tagline to boot: "Oceanic Plane Crash Survivor Breaks the Silence." And, as she'd found out through ubiquitous posters, what better way to break the silence than with his upcoming concert. It looked as though he'd gotten it together and she was happy for him, really. But worry clouded her sincerity as she was confronted with the idea that his happiness just might jeopardize her new-found freedom. She had found a pub later that evening, spent a good deal of her savings on drinks to wait on his exclusive. Post-island life agreed with him, she assessed, as he registered on the screen; maybe a little thinner than he'd been on the island but definitely with a more healthy color. He starts out with an apology, in that charming English way of his, saying that this was his story, and as such, other survivors' privacy would be respected. Asked why he came out in the first place, he answered as though incredulous, "We survived a bloody plane crash, man. It's not something you can chuck out like over-chewed bubblegum, eh. And it sure as hell's not something to be shy about." She wondered when he'd become so wise.

It took her a year to make peace with the fact that she wanted a life _with him_.

After England, she started for Iowa, to her hometown she'd not been to since she was eighteen years old. She drove by their old house, even passed by Tom's but it wasn't the time to relive the past, not when the future was impatiently waiting. For the most part, the trip was surreal, something she thought she could only fathom in her dreams or maybe more appropriately, in her nightmares. She couldn't believe what she was about to do; but reality always was slow to catch up, always drawn out just long enough so you couldn't take back the things you say, the things you do. She parked the old heap of a truck in front of the familiar building; at one point in time, she'd driven up to the place, just like this, to take Wayne home after he was kept there for days. Disrupting the peace, they had proclaimed. She didn't know what made that one any different, any more worse than the others to warrant jail time; his rumbles at the local bar were, after all, staple for the neighborhood entertainment. She pushed the thoughts out of her head, because they were only making her anxious. She walked to the entrance, caught the eye of the officer at the desk, all the while counting to five. At count five, she did the unthinkable – she turned herself in. And when the cold metal touched her skin, when the sound of the handcuff clicking shut rang in her ear, it's then that reality finally caught up with her, leaving her with neither resolve nor regret to rationalize her actions.

There are, in retrospect, a number of possibilities, a wide range of combinations of circumstances: What if her mother didn't go into remission? What if she didn't testify for her? What if her lawyer didn't have the patience to stick it out? What if one of the jury got the flu that day of deliberation? What if the judge had taken her outbursts of insults and not-so-friendly statements too personally? What if she'd gotten mixed up with the gang wars? What if she'd gotten injured, even killed in the process? What would have happened to her then? What would she have done? It appalls her that she doesn't know and that she could live with that. Sometimes, a little trust could go a long way, could sustain you for years.

It took her two days after her release to get to him.

She finds herself standing in front of the hospital whose name he'd written on the back of a crumpled receipt six years back, in that small room, in that big hospital. She doesn't know what to expect. How has he been? How has his life changed, a wife perhaps, kids? How will he feel?

But it's a leap of faith, and now after six long years, she's finally going for it. She's never been so scared, so utterly unprepared, so sure of herself.

----

She first catches sight of him at the coffee vending machine, banging the thing with unusual intensity and fervor. He relinquishes his claim on his money and instead, slumps back on a nearby bench. He leans back, resting his head on the wall, and closes his eyes. She takes a step forward from behind the corner when a man in white overalls, a fellow doctor perhaps, approaches him and starts a conversation. She withdraws to her cover and decides she can wait a little longer. When they finish, he's back to resting, eyes closed, head leaning on the wall. As he doesn't budge roughly a minute after, she takes a chance and begins to make her way to him. She crosses the hall with a quickness that reminds her of the old days, back when she had to dodge glances, when she had to float through crowds like a ghost, unseen, undetected. It takes her a while to pace herself, realizing that there's no need for that anymore.

She latches onto the vending machine, browsing through the assortment of coffee flavors, all the while snatching glimpses of him. Now that she's closer, she assesses he's gotten thinner, with an unfamiliar shadow cutting deeper along the lines of his cheekbones and his body a bit more slender than what she remembers of him. Aside from that, she thinks him untouched by time. Or maybe, that's what she'd like to think, what she wants; for him not to have changed, for him to be the Jack she'd known on the island, the Jack who always wanted her safe and who always made her feel safe. She fishes out a crumpled bill off her pocket. It takes a moment for her to straighten it out and feed it into the machine. Thankfully, the machine responds, its lights blinking green. She pushes the button for vanilla. In no time, she has the cup on her hands.

She turns to him then, breathing in deeply. She recalls the list in her head which comprised of things she had to say and wanted to say. Maybe it'd be better to begin with the how's and why's. But they'd have time for that later, she thinks. She wants to tell him how she had missed him, how she wanted to call him, hear his voice, hear him breathe through the phone. Or maybe she could skip all the preliminaries and go straight to kissing him senseless.

She decides to stick to something safe. "Long day?"

He squints, opens his eyes slowly like he'd just awoken from sleep. His eyes look ahead and seem to focus on something in a distance but then, tuning out the origin of the voice, he turns his head to where she stands. What happens next, she swears, is something she will not forget, something that will be irreversibly etched in her memory for the remaining years of her life. She sees his eyes squint again, and then widen as if in recognition. And then his face falls into a mixture of raw wonder, sadness and pain. He visibly inhales, his mouth opening slightly as if to gasp for air. But maybe she's mistaken; maybe he was about to say something, maybe he was about to scream, cry, curse. His eyes take on a quality of glass that threatened to break into water, which in turn, threatened to wash away her resolve.

She imagines what irreparable damage she had caused this man, how much damage she's causing him now. But she didn't come this far to be discouraged that easily. She lowers her eyes, focusing her senses on the form and the heat of the cup on her hand. She's never liked the feeling but she knows she's at his mercy now.

"Feels like years." She hears the familiar voice, audibly shaken but still gentle, soothing to her ears. When she looks to him again, his lips are pursed, the beginnings of what could be a smile. There's something that flutters in her chest then, and she finds she's able to smile herself.

"Want to talk about it?" she ventures cautiously.

"I…I wouldn't even know where to start."

"Start at the beginning," she says as she took a seat beside him, handing him the coffee. "I hear that's where all good stories start."

He takes the cup from her, and seems to consider his words before speaking. "At the beginning? That could take a while." He takes a sip of the coffee, and gives her a smile, a full-blown one this time. It's vanilla, and he doesn't care for it much really, but she'd gotten him vanilla. "You sure you have enough time to spare?"

"Take all the time you need." No other words could have given her more pride and him, more relief.

"The beginning. Well, let's see, it all began…," his eyes wander off in space, as he starts his story, "when I met this woman."

"You won't believe," he shakes his head, seemingly talking and laughing all at the same time, "how infuriating she is; knows just how to push my buttons, wear down my patience. Stubborn as hell." He turns his gaze to her for a moment but withdraws it just as suddenly. It is at this point that his laughter dies down.

All she could afford him is a shy smile, both shamed and amused by the fact that all he could remember of her was their chain of silly, intense arguments.

"And she has that…smile," his voice is caught in a breath, "that made it all go away."

She doesn't dare look at him then, for fear of what she might see.

"I loved her." He lets the words hang in the air. She can't help but note the use of past tense and suddenly she finds herself unable to breathe.

"Love her." But he corrects himself. She can't decide whether to clobber him or kiss him; both options seem to be viable, but the former did have the tendency to ruin the moment. She decides to go with kissing him but he doesn't give her the chance.

"But she always wanted to run away," he says and then pauses, as if unwilling to go on. "To places I never could follow."

Before he could put another word in, she decides to tell him the truth. "What if she told you, she wanted to stay? For good?"

He turns then, his eyes set on hers. "If she told me that," he manages a small smile, "then I'd believe her."

No, Kate had never been one to hope, never thought much of faith. But she believes in him, as much as, if not more than, the way he believes in her.

And she thinks, that'll be enough.


	5. New certainties

New Certainties

_Together again,_

_It will feel so good to be in your arms_

_Where all my journeys end._

She wakes to the quiet warmth of the early morning sun streaming from the open window. The curtains, caught in a breeze, flap gently overhead, almost in a measured dance. While senses are readily accessible, consciousness is slow to wake; it takes her a moment to remember where she is. The faint stirring beside her, the soft breathing, clues her in and the memory of the past few days come rushing back and she can't help but smile.

She squints the sleep and sunlight off her eyes. When she turns her head to the side, she's welcomed by a very awake Jack, and a very amused smile from him. He's lying on his side, facing her, his right hand propping up his head, while the left, planted in front of him, maintains his balance. The sunlight plays about him, making a luminescent canvas of light and shadow with his face, bare chest, and the white sheets twisted lazily around his legs, and he's beautiful like that but she tries not to let that distract her.

"Why do you always do that?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"Hmmm?" he finds that he can't let go of the smile just yet.

"Wake up before I do."

He lets out an amused laugh to go with the smile. "Just want to make sure last night wasn't a dream."

"Oh, is that so? Well, what about the night before last night?" She raises her arms, hands almost touching the headboard as she gives her body a stretch. The sheets slip off her shoulders, and rest along the incline of her breasts. "And the night before that? And how about…"

"What? You haven't heard of recurrent dreams before?" His tone is teasing, and his smile, innocuously content and pure awhile ago, has transformed into one that could only be described as cheeky. And she thinks two can play that game.

As soon as he'd let out the words, she leans to the side, her hands finding his neck to pull him into a kiss. When she finishes with him, his cheeks are flushed, his breathing ragged and that smile, she especially notices, has finally been wiped off his face.

She leans back fully on the bed, quite satisfied with herself. "Good morning, Jack."

"Okay, so it's not a dream," he assents; if dreams were that good, that real, maybe all those years shouldn't have been so hard on him. But he's not giving up the tease without sufficient compensation, "How about you give me another one, just to make sure."

"You're too cute." She just laughs it off; it bothers her sometimes, the idea that after days of being with him, even with the comfortable intimacy they'd manage to build between them, that he could still make her nervous, sweaty palms and all that.

"And here I thought you said it was creepy."

Her eyebrows shoot up at that. "I didn't say…"

"Oh you did." He scoots closer, losing an inch or two of the unwanted distance.

"Don't remem…"

"Sure you do." His hand comes to settle on her stomach. She tries to calm down by telling herself that the butterflies-in-your-stomach thing was just a figure of speech. "It was just yesterday morning."

Still, it takes her a beat to lose the shyness. "What can I say; I'm unpredictable. That's why you like me so much."

"Oh, I don't know about that…," his hand travels upward, hovers above her chest, and comes to rest on her cheek, steering her head towards his. By this time, with her face only an inch away from his, all he has to do is whisper. "I bet I can think of more endearing qualities."

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and holds it until she feels the breath of his lips on hers. His kisses remind her of rollercoaster rides; she knows what's going to happen, she tries to imagine how it would feel, even try to prepare herself for it. And it shouldn't be that hard, she thinks, because she's done it before, so she should have a pretty good idea of how it'll be.

But every time, every kiss manages to leave her in a momentary shock, paralyzed in thrill and awe. Because each kiss is somehow different than the last; there's always a new loop, a deeper plunge, a higher slope. She doesn't get what she'd expected. And yet, ultimately, everything she hoped for.

When they break apart, both are literally panting and smiling. He leans forward, wanting to kiss her again, but she backs away, placing her hands on his chest to hold his advances; if she doesn't play her cards right, the next kiss might just do her in, and in all likelihood, they could end up spending the whole day in bed, which isn't necessarily a bad idea – come to think of it, not a bad idea at all – but he has work to go to, patients to cheer up, lives to save and she thinks she can't be the one to keep him from that. Heroes and their girls, she muses, what a pair they make.

He frowns at the apparent resistance, his eyes unsure and searching; yes, sometimes he lists her unpredictability as his least favorite trait. Nonetheless, he stops midway into leaning, and holds his ground. She lets out a good-natured laugh, both charmed and touched by his self-control and consideration for her. And even as her senses have yet to settle down, she gives him a quick kiss, making sure to pull away before the desire to do so leaves her completely. Then, she props herself off the bed, taking the sheets by her arms as she tries to sit up. She makes a move to get up, but a hand tugs lightly at her arm.

"Hey, hey, where are you going?" he asks, with an expression that picks at her heart, that keeps her in place.

"Breakfast isn't going to make itself, Jack."

"That can wait. Come on, Kate." He doesn't release his grip on her and she makes the mistake of looking him in the eyes. How can she say no to that? She rolls her eyes, and promptly falls back onto the bed. "Let's just," he makes her turn to her, his hand finding their way to her back, angling her body to face his, "let's just stay here for awhile." She follows his lead, and rolls on her side. If this is going where she thinks it's going, she doubts if they'd even make it to dinner.

It's not that she doesn't enjoy it, of course – his kisses, the sex, the closeness, his presence. But the medley of feelings he inspires in her, no matter how delectable, addicting, always comes with the slightest trace of guilt from the things of the past that she can't quite let go of yet. Her reservations, although essentially spineless and easy to yield, are not for the lack of desire, need for him; on the contrary, she's worried that she might be enjoying it too much.

"Shouldn't you be getting to work?" she suggests, trying to dissuade him even as she eases into the embrace, inching her way closer to him until her cheeks brush against his chest, and her warm breath is blowing over it. "You know," she points to his chest, drags the finger around in a doodle, "put on your spandex and cape, and go save someone or something?"

And she thinks nothing of it, does it only out of casual whim, but she gives him a peck on the chest and she feels him jerk against her lips.

"And who are you supposed to be? My sidekick?" he manages to reply. But the tension in his voice is something he can't quite cover up with humor.

"You okay?" she meets his eyes, confused. In truth, she doesn't know what to make of it; but she gets an idea as she smoothes her hands over his chest – he's shivering, his body racked by tremors, slight and otherwise unnoticeable, if not for their proximity.

"Never better," he says as he inhales sharply.

"But you're…," she just wants to be clear on this.

"Yeah I know," he says, biting his lip, as if that wasn't supposed to come out.

She stares at him, incredulous, and not quite sure how to react to that. Her body, on the other hand, appears to know exactly what to do as she feels her cheeks burn up with a warmth that seems to permeate her skin all over, pierce her flesh right down to the bone. She also finds that her breaths come at a pace quicker than she'd like them to.

"That's what you do to me," he adds, as if that could explain everything.

The pleasant warmth is now replaced by the overwhelming feeling of something burning in her chest. Or is that her heart melting? This is starting to play out like the mid-afternoon soap operas she'd watch while growing up, the types she had come to love for their predictable plots and nauseatingly sweet dialogues; the Austen household was, among other things, the perfect breeding ground for cynicism. She's certain that somewhere in soap opera history, there's a similar, if not identical, storyline to what she finds herself in now. But she discovers it's not remotely repulsive, or even the slightest bit funny when you're at the receiving end of the dialogue. And there's nothing predictable about it when it's your turn to speak.

Her silence leaves him baffled for a moment. Was it too much? Too cheesy? Too honest? Well, he does have the tendency to take everything about her to the extreme. He's sure he's used the term passionate before.

"Are _you_ okay?"

But yeah, it _is_ nauseating, might even cause mild to severe lightheadedness; for all the good kind of reasons, of course. It's a good thing they're lying down, she manages to think. "Yeah, it's just…," she shifts her eyes to his chest again. She decides she can be brave about it too. "A girl could get used to that, you know."

"You make it sound like it's a problem," he chuckles, reverting to their previous banter.

But when she doesn't answer, his tone, just as easily, flips back to serious. "Is it?"

"What?" Already, she knows the question, and the implications hanging on it, but she needs to buy herself some time.

"A problem."

Wasn't this everything that she dreamt about as a kid, watching her parents squabble about money, alcohol problems, their mutual abuse of each other and wishing she'd never have to see the day that she becomes them? Wasn't this everything that she had worked for all those years? Even when guilt hounded her every step, along with it was the distant, and yet, constant dream of a normal life. On the island, she watched that dream take on dimensions when she met him, in that shaded, sacred plot of sand, on his knees, bleeding and pleading for her help. When the handcuffs sounded to a lock with an air of finality, she believed she'd made the foundation for that dream – a clean slate, a fresh start because that was what he deserved. Wasn't this the very thing that got her through every second of the last six years? She deserves this. She deserves him. Maybe it'll take her years to finally get that through her unforgiving, stubborn brain, and maybe even then, she won't be wholly convinced, trip on doubts once in a while, beat herself up for her mistakes but she's not about to give this up. Maybe, in her mind, she won't ever be what he deserves, but she sure as hell's going to try.

"No." The word feels good on her tongue and she says it again for her sake. "It's not."

She looks up to his eyes and repeats it, this time with all the conviction her voice could affect. "Not a problem at all."

"Good," he says with a smile. The hand that supports his head on the bed comes to slip about her neck, nestling her head, while the hand around her waist grips her tighter, and if it were even possible, pulls her closer. He rests his chin on her head and seems to have foregone any ideas of moving.

"Yeah, that is good." She resumes her former position in his arms, hands on his chest, cheek against his skin. And he can't see it, but she's smiling as well.

He closes his eyes, and breathes out heavily, as if in relief. He tries to think of a joke, take up where they left off; the light teasing, and the easy silence in between. He promised himself they'd take it one day at a time and although his mind is buzzing with questions, he resolves that, no matter what, they're going to do just that. "So what are we going to do today?"

Her smile widens as she hears that – We – it comes almost naturally now, like they've been saying it for years. What are _we_ going to eat for dinner? _We_ are not going to your mom's. _We_ should get that carpet for the bedroom.

And although she welcomes the habit, she can't pass up a good ribbing. "We, huh? Sorry, but your sidekick's gonna guard the headquarters, make sure we're safe from regular, mortal villains, you know, your average robbers."

"Or you can come with me to work."

"_You_, however," she snubs him, continuing with her enumerations, "are going to have to save a couple of lives today, maybe more, ignore the female patients and/or acquaintances who shamelessly throw themselves at you, and don't even pretend you don't notice, splurge on a dozen of cups of coffee, and come home to me."

When she finishes with her instructions, he finds himself laughing again, which gives him all the more motivation not to go; he hasn't been this happy for as long as he can remember and he's not too keen on separating himself from its only source. "Or…I can call in sick and stay in bed with you." He's persistent, she'll give him that.

"Or…," she mimics his tone, "I'll stay in bed and wait for you." But she can be just as persistent.

"Yeah, that'll work," he snorts.

"What? I'm perfectly capable of staying put if I really wanted to."

"Uh-huh."

She feels him bobbing his head in agreement, but his voice tells her he's anything but agreeing.

"Besides, I'm sure I'll find something to keep me busy," she says burrowing her cheeks into his chest, comfortable and at home. "I haven't even gone through the photo albums yet."


End file.
